clutches the BLT to her breast and ducks, slipping to the side and away. Glances back at the end of the chiller cabinet to watch it sniffing the sacrificial offerings.
Right, past the little forests in the little pots. Then more plastic statues, these ones wearing dresses and cardigans.
Exit. Exit. EXIT.
A hand on her shoulder makes her squeal.
She spins around, and a puzzled face stares back at her: skin like midnight, hair like dark curly wool.
‘Sorry, miss, but I think you forgot to pay for that.’
Rowan looks down at the sandwich. The paper container is crushed against her chest, the shards of dead pig sticking out between the bread, like blades. Then back up at that kind face with the beautiful eyes and the halo of gold. ‘Someone’s following me.’
The angel in the security guard’s uniform looks over his shoulder. ‘What does he look like?’
‘A man, with jeans and a leather jacket and his hair all over the place…’ She points back towards the food section. It’s a lie, but the truth would only hurt him, the beasts are too powerful. Rowan digs in her pocket and comes out with a crisp five-pound note, presses it into the angel’s hand. ‘Please, don’t let him know I was here.’
The angel nods, then turns towards the tills. ‘I’ll get your change.’
And as soon as he’s two steps away she’s out the door, running.
Logan pushed through the double doors into the cutting room. The little speakers mounted to the tiny stereo unit were droning out Jim Morrison’s tone-deaf call for an infant to set fire to him. Not exactly appropriate.
Dr Graham was perched on a stool, hunkered over the cutting table at the far end of the room, fiddling with what looked like a box filled with blue rubbery lumps. A skull sat on a white plastic tray beside her, next to a pile of books opened to display thick blocks of graphs, figures, and tables.
Logan turned the music down. ‘All on your own?’
Dr Graham looked up at him. ‘Miss Dalrymple let me in. Hope that’s OK? Wanted to get cracking.’
She took a Stanley knife down one corner of the box and peeled off the cardboard like the skin of an orange, exposing the blue rubbery flesh below. ‘Moment of truth…’ Dr Graham dug her fingers into the blue stuff and pulled – ripping it away to reveal a yellowy-white skull. Then held it up and scrubbed at it with the palm of her hand. ‘Perfect.’
‘This our victim?’
She placed the cleaned skull on a little plinth, slotting it onto a rod set into the base. ‘Resin cast. Dr McAllister wouldn’t let me use the real one for the facial reconstruction. It’s a bit of extra work, but on the plus side it no longer counts as human remains, so we can forget all that rubbish about having to be supervised by a “registered medical practitioner with five years’ experience”… As if I’m going to take a can opener to someone’s skull, or use it as a football.’
Logan leaned against the cold stainless-steel surface. ‘So what’s the diagnosis?’
‘Well, he’s definitely dead.’ She grinned. Then cleared her throat. ‘Sorry. I’ve mapped out the tissue depth and cut the markers, so all I need to do is apply them and I can get on with the real work…’ A little crease appeared between her eyebrows. ‘You didn’t put ice on that, did you.’
‘Didn’t have any. And fish fingers didn’t work.’
‘No, probably not.’ She pulled over a small metal tray, laid out with discs of pale rubber, as if she’d cut them off the end of pencils – each one marked with a number in black ink. ‘You know, with bones we can tell almost everything about a person: what they ate, where they lived, where they lived before that, height, weight, sex, ethnicity…’ A dab of glue went on the end of a disc, then she fixed it right in the middle of the skull’s forehead.
‘What happened to Dr Dempsey?’
‘Sulking. Threatening legal action.’
‘You hit him first?’
A shrug. Marker number one was joined by two and three. ‘He pushed me.’
Logan nodded up at the shiny black globe hanging from the ceiling over the central cutting table, like a store security camera. ‘Tell him it’s all on film.’
‘Your victim was male, Caucasian.’ Four, five and six followed the ridge of the eyebrows. ‘To be honest, he’s been spoiling for a fight for years, ever since I got sent to Iraq instead of him. Said he should be the one digging bodies out of mass graves, not me…’ She sat back and tilted her head to one side. ‘Blue, brown or green?’
Shrug. ‘Blue?’
‘Brown’s more neutral.’ Dr Graham dipped into her massive handbag and pulled out a wooden box, a little bigger than a pencil case. When she opened it, three pairs of glass eyes stared back at Logan. She plucked the brown eyes from the box, then fiddled around with rubber batons and glue until they were staring out from the skull instead. ‘There we go, much better.’
Seriously? It looked like something out of a cheap horror film.
‘Can’t you just do all this on computers?’
‘What, like they do on the telly?’ Markers seven to ten were longer, sticking out of the upper and lower jaws. ‘Facial reconstruction’s half science, half art. You have to really know bones. How’s a computer ever going to do that?’
‘Go on then.’ Logan went into his jacket pocket, pulled out the junior soup starter kit that had been left on his doorstep, and dumped it on the cutting table. The bones rattled against the stainless steel. ‘What can you get from a bunch of chicken bones and some manky herbs?’
She peered at them, then added the next couple of markers to the skull. ‘They’re not chicken bones, they’re phalanges. Finger bones. Human.’ A smile. ‘Do I pass the test?’
‘Finger bones?’
A sigh. ‘OK, we’ll do it properly…’ She pulled an A4 lined notepad from beneath one of the books, flipped over to a clean sheet, then stuck her left hand flat down on it and drew around the palm and fingers with a pencil. Then untied the bundle. ‘This one –’ she held up one of the little bones – ‘is a proximal phalanx from the middle finger.’ She placed it on her wobbly outline of a hand in the right place. ‘This one’s an intermediate… Might be from the index – going by the growth on the distal articular surface – but it’s impossible to tell for sure without having all the other bones for comparison.’ It went on the drawn hand. ‘And lucky number three is a proximal from the thumb.’
‘They’re human?’
‘Yup.’ She lowered the last bone into place. Then picked it up again. ‘I don’t know who cleaned them for you, but they seriously need to go on a training course. Boiling bones damages the joints, look,’ she wiggled the end at Logan, ‘see how it’s all pitted and porous?’
It looked like a pale Crunchie bar
